Dead
by AmalaDamarr
Summary: ...  is dead. Truly dead. And Hanna's not taking it well; especially now, under the watchful eyes of authority who think he's a psychopath, or worse, a murderer.
1. Chapter 1

The man was perfectly mummified. His body was dressed in a bright orange dress shirt, partially untucked, and dark jeans. That certainly didn't match the description the police were given of the last time he was seen nearly eleven years ago. I didn't much care what the officers had to say to me when they came by, though, not about who the man was while he was alive or what must have happened to him. I was far more concerned with the screaming, struggling red-head they'd brought to me, the one pleading hysterically to let the man go because he was just sleeping, he'll wake up soon, _I didn't kill him you bastards, he's my best friend!_

They'd had quite an adventure just getting him into the straitjacket. The officers in charge of that all had haphazard scratches and bruises from the red-head's frantic attempt to escape, to follow the medics who'd taken the mummified body to the morgue.

The young man was sedated and locked into a cell, and I was given orders to diagnose and treat and anything else I could, because hell if anyone knew what was going on. All my other patients were reassigned. I was to devote all my time to him. Him and his wide, manic eyes, shining an unsettling electric blue and rung deep with purple.

His name was Hanna Falk Cross. He was twenty-five years old.

* * *

Ok, So. This is the reason my other fic isn't being regularly updated right now.

I was sifting through prompts and requests online, and I saved a bunch that I liked. Filling random requests from the kinkmeme forever ago, sorta. Haha. I wanted to get this one out of the way because it's depressing. It's long and depressing. Did I mention it's depressing? Because it totally is. (If I did it right, pfft...XD)

It's gonna be short chapters. Most of them won't be as short as this one though. Introductory chapter, yanno. Any words you wanna throw at me are A-ok and very welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

I couldn't stop watching the tape they brought me. It was one of the most depressing things I'd ever seen, but also the most fascinating. I couldn't explain the feelings that gripped me any more than I could explain the strangeness I witnessed.

It started with Hanna. The camera was set up overhead by an investigator hired when the corpse was reported. It zoomed in on Hanna at the stove, trying to make macaroni and cheese. He was so endearingly clumsy with it, it was almost cute if you could ignore the dead body propped against the wall. Hanna spoke to it the whole time.

"-so it turned out to be nothing, but I still wish you were there, you know?" he would say, every time I started the tape over. He would be smiling and springy. "We could have gone to the park or something after. We'll go when you wake up, Dawson, it'll be great!"

After that, he'd burn himself on the pan, curse loudly, and send the pot tumbling to the ground, spilling his dinner all over the dingy kitchen tile. He'd stand there dejectedly for a minute, staring. He'd fall to his knees. His head would move from the mess to the corpse then, and even though the angle didn't show it, I knew his eyes were welling up with tears because he'd sniffle a few seconds later, wipe at his eyes under the glasses.

"I wish you'd wake up, Styada. I obviously can't cook for myself, after all…" his voice wavered with a desperately forced laugh. His shoulders shook. A few minutes later, he'd be openly sobbing, moving to embrace the corpse. He'd hold him tight, crying as he babbled somewhat incoherently. He'd beg the dead man to wake up, to smile just one more time, _just open your eyes please, what do I have to do?_

"God, just fucking _hold me_," he'd bawl, gripping tighter. "You always held me when I cried, why can't you now? _Why won't you hold me?_"

This would continue for a while, and my heart would clench painfully. This kind of anguish is hard to fabricate through a psychotic episode.

Hanna would pull away after, wiping furiously at his face and turning back to the mess on the floor.

"I'm sorry about that," he'd say, grabbing a dishtowel from the counter. "I know you're probably just trying to rest, I shouldn't cry over you like that. I'm being selfish. You'll wake up soon, it's ok…I can be patient. I just miss you is all."

He'd start to cry again halfway through cleaning up the macaroni, then the tape would cut out into a second of static. It came back in with Hanna manhandling the body to another wall, doing his damnedest to go slow and careful. There'd be a shoddy bandage job where he'd burned his hand. Once he'd gotten the body in place, he'd leave a book at his feet.

"This one's your favorite, right? I'll just leave it here in case you wake up while I'm sleeping. Don't want you getting bored. I'm sure you won't wanna go out, it's pretty wet out there lately."

He'd shuffle out of his clothes then and slip into pajamas. Before climbing into bed, he'd lean down to press a lingering kiss to the dead man's lips.

"Good night, Epsilon. I hope you're better tomorrow."

The video would cut out again, then phase back in with Hanna sitting up in bed, staring at the corpse in the dark. He'd be sniffling again.

"It's just a nightmare," came his muffled whisper. There would be a strange blue light in his hand. I couldn't see what was making it, only a dark scribble on his palm . It was as though he was simply holding a ball of light. "I…do you mind if I…I don't think you will. You never minded before anyway…"

He'd close his palm, extinguishing the light, stumble out of bed and settle down in the corpse's lap. He'd fall asleep against the orange-clad chest after peppering small, chaste kisses to the green-tinged jaw and neck, and the video would cut out for good with the sound of his hitching, sobbing breaths evening.

I rubbed my eyes, still at a loss. I'd be meeting Hanna in person for the first time today. I didn't know what to think of him, what to say to him. I wanted to hold him close to me, I wanted to ask him what the hell he was thinking, I wanted to slap him and tell him he was a moron keeping a dead body in his house. Was he a necrophiliac? How did he get that body? What caused him to fabricate this life he seemed to think they had together? Hanna would have been fourteen when the man died, they couldn't have been lovers. I doubted they even knew each other. Had he just picked a body at random, or found one specifically? Someone who looked like an old lover or an unrequited love?

I'd handled psychotic criminals before, but Hanna wasn't a criminal. There was no way those terrified, anguished eyes belonged to a felon.

* * *

Uh. Forgot disclaimer on the first chapter there. But hell, guys, y'all know I don't own HiNaBN!

Also, ugh. I hope I'm not too terrible at writing sad.


	3. Chapter 3

Hanna was all twitches and frantic mania in the cell. He called out hoarsely, begging for someone to come see him, to tell him what the hell was going on. He was disoriented, still dizzy from the drugs that were wearing off quickly. His bare feet padded across the floor, circling the cell, desperate and frightened. It hurt to watch him that way.

I set to work undoing the locks on his door. At the sound, Hanna stopped mid-step, eyes set unblinking on the one-way window, unable to see me like I could see him. Once I opened the heavy door, he bolted towards me, but didn't try to get past me.

"Where the hell _am_ I? Where's Harvey? There's been some kind of mistake, I don't understand-"

"Mr. Cross," I cut him off with a hand to his shoulder. "My name is Connor Hewney. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you."

Hanna stared up at me, confusion in his insanely blue eyes. "No…no, this doesn't…I don't need a doctor, I need _Harvey_! Why is this happening? Get me out of this jacket!"

He struggled with it, eyebrows creased with effort as he bit his lip. I tried to console him enough to listen to me, but he continued to pull away from me, to wriggle in the jacket. If his arms were as skinny as his legs, I feared he might actually succeed at freeing them.

"Mr. Cross, please, just hear me out for a moment! I can let you out of that jacket."

His eyes snapped back to me, but he didn't still his movements. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm the only one allowed near you right now except for big, angry guards. I'm only here to help you out. I can let you out of that jacket if it bothers you, but you have to promise not to try to get away or to hurt anyone, including yourself."

He seemed to consider it. He sized me up, studied my face, taking in his surroundings for maybe the first time with a clear head. He licked his lips.

"I'm…I'm in the crazy house, huh?"

I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably. "Well…I wouldn't call it _that_…"

"Call it whatever, that's where I am. Look, I'm not crazy, I swear…you have to let me out."

"I can't do that. They'll arrest you if you leave here. They think you're a graverobber, or worse, a _murderer_. You can't leave here until I give a diagnosis…and even so, you'll end up in another cell."

He was quiet for long moments, staring at his feet. Then he looked back at me, eyes weary and miserable. "You don't think that, do you? Do you really think I'd kill my best friend? Or dig up dead bodies? Fuck, how did everything end up this way?"

I sighed, moving to touch his shoulder again. "I don't think you're a murderer. I do think you're unwell, though. Something…something's very wrong here. You have to understand what all this looks like to an outside perspective, even if you do have a good reason for having a corpse in your house."

What reason there could be, I couldn't fathom. But I needed him to believe I was on his side.

Hanna's face dropped, thinking. He sniffed, looked around him again. I could just see the despair in his eyes, the realization that everything was falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it. I wanted to stop it for him, but what could I do? Even if I was enough of a fool to let him free, where could he go? He'd probably try to get into the morgue and retrieve the body. There was nowhere he could go. There was nothing I could do to save him now. The best thing I could offer would be myself; someone who genuinely wanted to help him, someone he could talk to, someone who could tell the world he was crazy even if he wasn't…though he _had_ to be, and it hurt me to admit it, but there was no getting around the fact that something was _wrong_ with him. Even so, I couldn't bear the thought of this young man in a prison. In a psych ward, at least he'd have more safety, more freedom. He could get out of a ward in a few years with no trouble. Prison would destroy him.

"I…I don't have anything left now."

I looked at him as he brought his face back up, his ice-blue eyes stabbing into mine. They were empty and broken. I felt my chest tighten. Tears pricked at my eyes. He must have noticed; there was a tiny glimmer of confusion in his gaze.

"You have me," I told him thickly, holding my emotion back with all the years of training and heartache I'd pushed through. "It may not be much, and you may not even want it, but I'm here, and I'm going to help you."

He blinked. For a moment, his eyes were the same desolate sea as before. Then they flooded, bursting over his eyelids as his lip trembled and his knees buckled. He cried on the padded floor, trapped in his jacket still, loud and hot and hard. I could see every vein and tendon in his neck and forehead. Professionalism could kiss my ass. I knelt down and gathered him into my arms, holding him against my chest with one arm as I undid the buckles with the other. Once he was free of the restraint, he flung his arms around my waist, sobbing, trying to form words, unsuccessfully, and he gave up. Just cried. I held him close, just like he'd begged the corpse to do all those short days ago.

I knew my coat would be covered in tears and snot and spittle, but I hadn't expected blood.


	4. Chapter 4

Hanna had been in the medical unit for five minutes before I heard the screaming.

As it turned out, spitting up blood was a normal reaction to stress for Hanna, but I couldn't have known that. I wish I had; it would have saved a lot of doctors from splitting headaches and confusion and Hanna's fragile state being brought down even farther.

There was something wrong with Hanna's chest. He refused to let anyone see it, to examine him. He wouldn't step onto the scale either, wouldn't allow blood tests. He bit one of the nurses who'd tried to take his shirt off. He'd apologized for it and cried, but he wouldn't let anyone near him after that. He begged and begged and sobbed and scratched at the door to get out. Finally, they simply let him go, assessing that if he was well enough to put up such a fight, he was fine. I could tell he'd be gossiped about in the break room that afternoon, and not positively.

His face was guilty as he was led back to me, in the hallway. He was quick to stumble over apologies and rambled on about telling that nurse he really didn't mean to and he was so sorry, but please, please, _please_ don't ever try to look at his chest, don't give him medical examinations, please, he'll do anything, _anything_.

I grabbed his shoulders, told him to calm down. I wasn't angry. I told him that, but I didn't tell him that I was more curious than ever now, that I was tempted to sedate him and force the examination. He's been through enough, I told myself. He doesn't need any more. Whatever he's hiding, I'll just tell everyone it's not relevant to my diagnosis. Though…I had a sneaking suspicion it was extremely relevant. To his mental state at least, if not this particular case.

"She just wouldn't let go," Hanna said again, apparently unable to let go himself. "I asked her to, and I screamed, and I cried at her, but she just wouldn't stop. I didn't _mean_ to bite her, honest, I just panicked…"

"I know, Hanna. I know. It's all right. That kind of thing happens all the time anyway, and she shouldn't have tried to force you. We aren't supposed to do things like that."

"You're not?"

"If it's not relevant to the case, we have to leave it alone. We can sedate a patient if they get violent, but we are not under any circumstances to provoke the violence. You're over 18, you can decide what happens to you aside from what the court has ordered us to do. Removing your shirt and giving you unnecessary physical examinations was not a court order."

Hanna didn't say anything, but he nodded. He still looked guilty. He shouldn't have. It was my fault for overreacting to the blood.

We walked back to his cell together. Despite the episode in the med room, I felt no need to put him back into a straitjacket. He'd been institutionalized before; he knew the ropes. He was cooperative and resigned. He knew there was nothing else to do. I gripped his shoulder tighter, trying to comfort us both.

"I miss Lukan," he whispered.

"I thought his name was Harvey." I knew it wasn't.

"He didn't remember his name when we met. I just got into the habit of calling him anything I wanted. It was supposed to be to help find his real name, but…I was afraid of that. I called him all kinds of ridiculous things, like Galahad or Izanagi…I wanted him to remember his past, but at the same time, I…"

He didn't continue. I played along, hoping it would make him more open with me. "You thought he'd leave you once he remembered?"

"Yeah. Pretty childish and selfish, right?"

"A little. But I think anyone else would have acted the same way." I didn't mention that the scenario was a little different when dead bodies were concerned.

I also didn't tell him then that I was certain no one would want to leave him, but I wanted to. And I wanted to be right. I just couldn't be sure…no one else was there now, were they? Maybe there was, and they just didn't know what had happened yet. I hoped that was the case. I hoped someone was out there, thinking about him, wondering where he was.

* * *

Wow guys, there was nothing but good reviews so far. You guys are awesome... ;A;

Gonna get a few more chapters up tonight. Wewt!

And...yeah, no, it doesn't get better, if anyone's waiting for some happy. There's no happy. I'll try to update my other fic with some happy. Ridiculously long and fluffy and dumb. XD


	5. Chapter 5

Hanna and I spent a lot of time talking over the next few days, after all the tests were administered. He was subdued in the beginning, hiding the fact that he didn't tell me a single relevant thing behind an endless stream of words. We talked about me, more than him, and by the time I realized it, he was already onto telling me more of what I needed to know. I think he just wanted to know me before he trusted me, wanted to gauge my persona and my life before he could open up. It was a fairly common tactic, but it had never been executed so subtly before, not in my experience. Hanna was, surprisingly, very bright and very deceptive, which was certainly at odds with others' perception of him. The boy had the highest, most secure walls around him that I'd ever seen, and knowing the kind of mind it took to create them made me question the apparent clumsiness and naivete. Was he acting this way on purpose? Was every move he made calculated and planned, even the times he tripped or stumbled or fumbled with things?

A logical part of me told me it was very likely. The part of me that read people by their eyes, by a feeling…that part told me it was genuinely him. He was a master of deception and a fantastic actor where it counted, to protect himself, but I couldn't get myself to fully believe everything he did was a show. Which was, of course, saying he was a klutz and childlike, but I hardly saw that as a bad thing.

It was three days before he even mentioned the corpse again. I'd never made it a point to find out his real name. I didn't want to accidentally tell Hanna. Something inside me felt that it would hurt him more than anything.

"So…where's Calvin?"

"The morgue." I knew I'd told him that before. Maybe the drugs he'd been under made him forget.

Hanna twitched, his arm moving to pull at his hair. "Why?"

I breathed out through my nose, trying to think of a delicate way to explain it. Hanna didn't see the man as dead. How could I make him understand without pushing him away? I couldn't settle for anything but direct. Hanna wasn't an idiot.

"He's a corpse, Hanna. He's dead. He has no pulse, no living tissue…there was nowhere else we could have taken him."

"I know that, but…it was never a problem before. I don't understand."

This threw me for a loop. I'd been under the impression Hanna thought he was alive. "You…_knew_ he was dead?

"Well, yeah. I mean, he was _green_ and covered in autopsy stitches. No heartbeat or anything. He was _undead_. A zombie, sort of. But he could think and speak and was alive in every sense that counted. I don't know why he just…stopped moving one day."

I didn't know how to react to that. A zombie?

"Hanna…a _zombie_? Do you really…"

I couldn't finish my sentence. I didn't know how. Hanna thought the man was a zombie. That he could move and think and speak and walk…how did that happen? And how could he tell me like it was such a normal thing?

"Right," Hanna said. "I should have figured you wouldn't believe me. Don't worry, I don't blame you. Most people don't know about things like that being real."

"Hanna, you can't expect something like that to hold up in court…no one would believe it. I don't even believe it. Zombies…_Christ_, that's just…"

"Crazy?"

Hanna's wry smile and knowing eyes tugged at something in the back of my mind. Whether it was true or not, Hanna believed it completely. There was no doubt in those eyes of his.

Suddenly, everything was far more complicated, for myself as well as for him.


	6. Chapter 6

He cried when he was alone. Every night, in his cell, curled up on his cot. I didn't know this at first. I heard the nurses talking about it. I thought afterward that I should have expected it. His eyes were just too bright when we spoke, too guarded, no matter how openly he spoke.

On the third day, after the "zombie revelation, I decided there was no harm in giving him non-toxic crayons and soft paper since he'd get restless in his room. I asked to see what he'd drawn after I found out about his nightly breakdowns. He was hesitant, but he brought them out from under his cot, handing them to me with a downcast face and eyes shining with repressed tears. There were dozens of pages, covered front to back with drawings. Profiles, silhouettes, full-body, even scenic images, all of himself with the tall cadaver or just the cadaver alone. Hanna gave him expressions; small ones, hardly noticeable at a glance, small smiles and little furrows in his brow. He wasn't a particularly good artist, but the emotion showed through well enough. When I looked at him, he gave me a faltering, sheepish smile.

"I love him, doc. He's all I can think about. I guess you know that, though, I probably talk your ear off about him…can't really remember 'cause of the meds. Do I talk abbot him a lot?"

"All the time, Hanna." My voice felt heavy. I heaved a sigh, handing the pictures back to him. "Every day. I know you love him. I just can't for the life of me figure out how or why."

"I didn't lie to you. He was as good as alive, and I loved him. Love him." His lip quivered. He bit it, hard. "I don't know how much longer I can take all this, doc."

I didn't know what to tell him. I didn't know what to do. All I knew was everything was so painful and unfair and I wanted to believe him more than I ever wanted anything. It was only when he cast me a determined stare that I realized I'd said the last part out loud.

"I'll make you believe me, somehow. I know I can. All I need is a sharpie marker."


	7. Chapter 7

Subject: Hanna Falk Cross

Age 24

Initial diagnosis log, Week 1

Minor Schizophrenic tendencies; while his speech, motor and other cognitive functions appear fine, he displays delusions and hallucinations pertaining to the paranormal, as well as a fabricated life and vague but clearly expressed romantic feeling toward the corpse in question. High possibility of Necrophilia; the only reason I state it as a possibility is that there is no proof he committed any physically sexual acts with the deceased party. Intermittent signs of past PTSD, relating to his body and health; irrelevant to present case, but proves severe mental instability. Slight insomnia due to stress. Has relayed history of insomnia and nightmares. Severe depersonalization appeared in the onset of his incarceration, but has improved drastically. He seems dependent on interpersonal stimuli; possible diversion tactic, as he becomes highly depressed and agitated when left alone too long. Refuses to speak about his past up to the point where he "met" the corpse. Has not mentioned any family, but does speak of friends and had a conventional, functional job, which leads me to rule out any social disorders aside from his admitted social awkwardness. Healthy eating habits and relatively normal mood patterns.

He still believes the corpse in question is "alive", in the sense that he can function despite his death. He has admitted he knows the man is dead; believes him to be a zombie, and that they solved paranormal cases together. He draws pictures of the deceased man every time he picks up a crayon, sometimes illustrating "cases" he claims to have been on with him. This is an obvious case of denial, but he is completely certain he's right. I can do nothing to dissuade him. He is, however, highly intelligent. His I.Q. is well above the average range. His thoughts do not appear disorganized, but rather sharp and calculated. Very deceptive in that he can display a mood or persona despite his actual feeling. He easily avoids subjects and dodges questions he is uncomfortable with by subtle and effective turns of words. Displays a good-natured exuberance and borderline hyperactivity when conversing with other patients. His interests and subjects of conversation are a bit odd and eclectic; he has a vast array of knowledge pertaining to various subjects, including history, situational deduction and induction, cultural anthropology, paranormal studies, mythology, comics - the list goes on. His speech is quick and he uses somewhat outdated slang. He laughs easily and often, though he has been reported by nurses to weep every night in his room.

Overall, Hanna is a tough subject to diagnose. He appears to have his own way of functioning, thinking, and understanding, well outside of the status quo even as he finds a way of making it look natural. If I were to meet him on the street, I would not consider that he was mentally unstable. Knowing as much as I do, however, it it obvious that he is, but it will take some time to uncover the root of all this. I still have no idea where the delusions stemmed from, or why he would imagine a corpse to be his paranormal sidekick and lover.

End log

Dr. Connor Hewney


	8. Chapter 8

Hanna was right. Hanna was right, but _god_, we could never simply use the proof in court. I knew it, and he knew it. I think he just wanted me to believe him, at least. Wanted someone to know he wasn't crazy. Wanted someone to know the magic was _real_.

He'd mentioned the sharpie before. One day, during a rather difficult session for Hanna - he was recounting a night with the "zombie", just sitting together with cocoa and an old movie, where the two of them had kissed for the first time - I gave him the pen.

Several flourishes to his skin later, there was a glow. Straight from his skin, light emerged, balled up in his palm. The light from the video. It was like a ball of calm blue flame in his hand, and it was the most beautiful and terrifying thing. I was left speechless, and he closed his hand over it, putting the light out, already drawing more runes over himself. He showed me a levitation rune, a strength-augmenting rune, a doppelganger and a projectile that shattered the flower pot on my windowsill. He trusted me to see all manner of magic, but the very last one is the one that must have taken the most courage to show me.

He pulled a memory out of his head by writing a small rune on his fingertip and pressing it to his temple. It lit up his eyes, and the memory played from them like a projector. The zombie was there, walking down a street with Hanna, holding his hand with fingers laced.

"_You walk too fast, Hesperos, my legs are shorter than yours!_" the memory Hanna was saying, swinging their arms happily, but definitely trotting to keep up.

The memory zombie glanced down at him with a half-smile. "_Oh?_" he said, and his voice was a deep, rich baritone. "_Well, I think I have a way to fix that_."

He then proceeded to literally sweep Hanna off his feet, finishing the move with a long, ardent kiss. Hanna laughed breathlessly when it was through, face burning red.

"_That's cheating. Using that whole "prince charming" thing is totally god-moding, seriously_."

The zombie smirked, kissing the tip of Hanna's nose. "_Will you forgive me if I make potato soup for dinner?_"

Hanna made a gleeful noise, throwing his arms around his neck. "_Already forgiven, man! Why are you so awesome?_"

Everything faded out then, the scene blinking out of sight behind Hanna's eyelids. Hanna collapsed when the memory was over, shaking, tears streaming silently from his now, quite literally, electric blue eyes, his pupils blown wide.

"I love him so much," he murmured, voice tight with emotion as I regained enough of my wits to stumble forward and help him up. "God, I love him so goddamn much…why did it end up like this? We were so _fucking_ happy…"

His trembling finally became too much, and he broke down once again, sobbing relentlessly against my shoulder. I led him to the couch, laid him out on it and petted his hair, trying to soothe him.

* * *

Powering out these chapters like whoa. I wanna get done with this sadfic, for real. It makes my heart hurt to write it so much that I think the writing itself is subdued. I might need to engage in some hardcore fluff and smut after all this is over. Good thing the kinkmeme gave me plenty of that to work with. XD


	9. Chapter 9

The man who came to visit Hanna was very cordial and polite, but I was wary of his bruised face and sharp, shifty eyes. He had a very nervous manner, it seemed, especially in the ward's atmosphere. His name was Lamont Toucey, and he claimed to be in the delivery business.

"Lamont!" Hanna cried, bounding over to his friend. "How did you know I was here?"

The dark haired man only raised a thick eyebrow at him, and Hanna laughed as he hit himself in the head.

"_Duh_, of _course_ you'd be the first one to find out. Stupid. Anyway, what's going on? How is everybody? That bandaid's new, did you and Worth go at it again? Man, you guys fight too much, seriously."

Hanna talked at him a mile a minute, but Mr. Toucey didn't appear to have any trouble keeping up. They must have known each other for a while. I myself was still having issue with Hanna's motormouth in group sessions.

"Worth isn't happy about this, you know."

"Yeah, I figured he wouldn't be, but there's not much to be done about it."

"There has to be something. Any day now, they could find out about your chest, and then who knows what'll happen to you? I don't trust these people."

Chest. Hanna's chest. So there was something wrong, and something serious. Something worth hiding, and for his safety apparently.

"It's ok, Lamont. Dr. Hewney's all right, he's taking good care of me. And he knows about my magic, man. He's doing everything he can to help."

"Is…is that _safe_? Shit, Hanna, you can't just trust anybody with this stuff!"

"No, it's cool! He's a good guy, I can tell."

"Good guy or not, I still want to get you out of here. We can hide you."

Hanna sighed. I could see the thought cross his mind, and he was silent for a long moment as he considered his options. I felt like an eavesdropper, and quite uncomfortably so. All the visits were to be monitored, for obvious reasons, but it just felt wrong now. It felt wrong to hear them hint at secrets and mention lawbreaking. There was a severe conflict of interest. While I wished to do everything legally, and keep my _job_ for goodness sake, I thought to myself that there was no way I'd try to stop the man from taking Hanna away from here. Only if he'd be happy, though, and safe. As close to happy as one could be in hiding, at least, and there was the problem Hanna seemed to be having.

"I can't do it, 'Monty. I just…can't. I can't hide and stay away from everything and everyone. I'm not like Worth. I don't think I could handle it. Besides…" A look of fierce determination bled into his eyes. "I _won't_ go on and let people think I killed Galahad."

Lamont's brows creased, but he pursed his lips and nodded. "When the case comes up, we'll be there. We'll blow the paranormal cap wide open if that's what it takes to prove you're innocent. Conrad wants to help, too. Can you believe he offered _himself_ as evidence?"

"_Connie_? No way!"

"He did. I can get him here for the hearing, too. My windows are shaded enough, yanno, for uh…certain 'cargo'."

Hanna smirked at him. "Ooh…?

"Eheh…anyway. I can pull some strings and make it a private case. No civilian spectators, no open court. I'll tell them the evidence is dangerous knowledge to the public or something. We'll make this happen, Hanna. We'll get you out of here."

Hanna only smiled at that, before promptly changing the subject.

They talked a while longer, and Hanna was a bundle of energy and excitement throughout the visit. By the end of it, I noticed a certain strain in Hanna, a subtle hitch in his behavior. I realized the whole mood of the meeting had been a show. I had a feeling Lamont noticed it better than I did.

"Take care of him," Lamont said to me, as he left, pointing an accusatory finger my way. "That kid's something special, and he's got so much shit inside him right now. And he's…he's just never gonna be the same now that the dead guy's gone. Even if we get him out…Well. Anyway. Heh. I should be going. Good night, Doctor."

Hanna was on his cot when I went back to him after escorting Lamont outside. He was deflated and worn-out. Too much pretending, I guessed. He looked at me and said he was tired. I told him it was just about time for lights out anyhow, even though it wasn't. We said good night and I left him there in his dark room, standing outside waiting to see if he'd start to cry. He did, and this time, it was so much worse, so much harder. He screamed this time, pounded his fist into the mattress, the wall. He pulled at his hair and curled into a ball under the sheets, still sobbing loudly. I ground my teeth together, using every ounce of will I possessed to keep from entering and comforting him. He didn't need comfort right now. I didn't understand his mind completely, but I knew that much. He needed to _vent_. He needed to cry. All the stress and sadness he felt was caged up inside, only let out in sporadic bursts at night; it wasn't enough. I wondered if it would ever be enough.

Lamont's words haunted me that night, in my own bed. What would happen when they got him out, if they could? Hanna wouldn't be the same, he was right. I hoped and prayed that, someday, despite all of this, Hanna would smile genuinely again, not forced or pretend or strained, shadowed by love of one long dead.

* * *

Oh my goooooood. This was a hard chapter because I had no time to write it. XD

Sorry Lamont didn't get much spotlight. He should later, when I get the case started, along with others. It'll be great fun, let's hope I get to it! No, really, it's not gonna be much fun. This fic is so not fun. Y'all that like it are such masochists, man. Or sadists, depending on whose depression you like more. XD But uh. Yeah. Good times.

I need more days off. PFFT.


	10. Chapter 10  POV: Hanna

POV Break: Hanna

* * *

There's really nothing left, now. You look at the walls around you and paint them orange with your eyes, because that's the color your dark walls are supposed to be. You picture a tiny window with a pizza slice of moon in the corner, but no stars. Your area is too polluted to see the stars, but you didn't mind so much after he came along. You'd give up ever seeing stars again for him to come and take you out of this place, smiling that little half-smile and staining you orange.

Your crayons are still on the floor. You need a new black one, for sure. And green, and orange, but you can improvise because you have red and blue and yellow. You haven't touched the blue. You haven't needed it. It's your favorite color, but what did that matter anymore?

You try to make it matter, try to tell yourself the blue feels neglected, why not try drawing something else tomorrow? Maybe draw Toni, her hair was always so pretty. Or that one ghost who didn't try to trash you, he was cool, and blue. Got mad when you called him Casper, though, but not too mad. Yeah, you should draw him. You won't, because you've done this before, and your hand doesn't seem to care what your desperation thinks, so blue will probably remain pristine. No use lying to yourself, you don't _want_ to draw skies or flowers. You want to draw _him_ because he's the only thing on your mind. Either way, it's fine, it's why you're here, in this grey place full of concrete and padding and bars and plastic glass. They want to know your mind. They want to know what makes you tick. They want to know why there was a corpse in your house and why you talk about ghosts and gnomes and pixies and werewolves and just what possessed you to think that man was a _zombie_?

Hewney knows. He understands you, at least enough to know you aren't completely nuts. He knows the zombie wasn't a delusion. He knows your magic and he wants to help you. And it's sweet, and you like him, because he's like an uncle or something, but in the end, there isn't anything he can do. There's nothing _anybody_ can do. Because the one thing you want is gone forever, and nothing seems to captivate you the way it used to. Sure, things were never all that bright even before you met the zombie, but you could make them bright if you wanted to, and you did, every chance you got. Now, everything was dark without that comforting wash of orange on everything, letting you know everything was all right, vindicating your struggle to survive in the world because he was worth waiting for. He was worth all the shit you'd been through, all the scars and mud and dumpsters and broken beer bottles whizzing inches from your face.

He was worth living for, worth smiling for. You want to smile now, at the memory, but it twists into something ugly and painful and you realize that smiling is really the_ last_ thing you want.

You want dry, sure hands in your hair, on your cheeks, your shoulders, your body. You want the deep reverberation of his voice in your ears, drumming through your chest and sending tingles down to your toes. You want that achingly beautiful feeling of loved, of needed. You don't want your friends trying to help you. You don't want them to get you out, what do you want with the world now? It's too much, just too fucking much. You don't want any more chances to love something enough to mourn the loss. You can't handle any more loss. And damned if you're going to take your friends down with you too. You wish Lamont hadn't found you.

The dark grey walls are underwater. You blink it away, but the fishtank refills instantly, drowning your thoughts. What good are they? What's the use of all this fighting?

You curl up on the unfamiliar bed and cry, pretending the hand petting your hair isn't yours.

* * *

AGH, HANNA, YOUR DEPRESSION CUTS A HOLE IN MY SOOOOUUUL

Gonna do a few POV breaks before I get to the court case. Totally not stalling because I don't know anything about court proceedings, yeah...

Aaaaand, Can't Keep Secrets is still on hold because I have trouble writing porn if more than one person is involved. XD


	11. Chapter 11 POV: Worth

POV Break: Worth

* * *

You knew this was bound to happen sometime. After all, the little fuck really couldn't be trusted to think that far ahead, and damned if he'd listen to anyone's warnings. If you _had_ brought it up, he'd have gotten defensive, yelled at you, cursed and covered his ears like a goddamn child. You know damn well it was his own fault, but shit, there's still that twinge of guilt in you. You could have done something. Could have had Lamont bug the kid's house to make sure he'd be ok, especially since the dead man stopped moving. Hanna loved him. It was clear as day and sick as fuck, but for what it was worth the zombie loved him back just as much. You guessed that made it all right, in some twisted way. The hell were you to talk about sick versus normal, anyway?

And fuck that guilt. It's not your fault. You _know_ that. It is not your fucking fault the kid couldn't keep his shit together and just accept the man was dead for good now.

You remember the day it happened. You take the deepest drag you've taken since Hanna came to you for the fist time, bleeding out worse than any normal human being could survive. Funny how that kid is probably the most responsible for the blackening of your lungs these days. The scene plays in your head plain as day.

"Worth! Fucking _hell_, get out here, I _need_ you!"

The cry was desperate, raw. You'd never heard him like that before, so you went out to him in a huff but held back your curses. He'd heard them all before anyway. You entered the front to find him dragging the motionless corpse behind him, his face streaked with tears and blood and snot, and your first instinct is to slap him for dribbling all over himself like that. Then you'd looked at the corpse real close, and the urge faded away. His eyes were open, but there was no glow. His limbs were nearly rigid. The stitching was loose; the skin was shrinking around them. Pretty obvious what had happened. Whatever had that stiff walking about had finally given up on him. You felt a bubble of dread in your chest. You did not want to think about how difficult Hanna would be to deal with after this.

"Worth, he just stopped moving, what happened to him? _Help_ him, _please_, I don't know what to do, none of my runes worked and he's just fucking laying there, _shit_, I can't-"

"Shut the fuck up," you said, more gently than you'd have liked. "Put 'im on the table.

Hanna did what he was told, but you knew what was wrong already. Hanna would never believe it without a procedure, so a procedure he'd get. You didn't feel the need to try an persuade him otherwise, no point in wasting energy like that, you'd just end up with the scalpel anyway. You didn't mind cutting into the corpse to prove it to him. That's what you told yourself at least.

After maybe half an hour, you'd performed a slipshod autopsy procedure, reopening the stitches from his previous one and trying to look like you'd done this before. Hanna wouldn't know the difference. He had winced and trembled and sniffed the whole time, but remained silent otherwise, his eyes intense and glued to the open green skin. You were sort of glad for that. You don't think you'd have been able to handle him crying and whining the whole time. You just wished he'd stop staring. That look in his eyes made you uncomfortable.

"He's dead," you told him, as firmly as possible. What the hell else _could_ you say?

"I…I know that, but what's-

"Hanna. He's _dead_ dead. He's fucking gone."

You tossed your gloves into the trash bin to give yourself a reason not to look at him. You didn't want to see the struggle on his face when he processed that

"He's…I don't understand."

"He's _gone_. He ain't gonna get up this time, kid. It's for good unless ya can find a damn good necromancer. But I think even you know how little good that'd do."

Hanna was quiet for a long time. You remember that tense moment so acutely it makes your chest throb with all the smoke you're holding in. You exhale and it continues, against your will.

You went about your business after that, deciding to re-stitch the man on the table. Hanna still hadn't said a word by the time you were done. He'd just sat and stared. His eyes were more intense than before, but for different reasons, reasons that made you worry and lick your lips with desire for a cigarette. Your eyebrows lifted in shock as Hanna stood up and went to your desk to get the crumpled pack of street cigs from the drawer. His face hadn't changed. His eyes weren't seeing. You wondered what the fuck was going on behind them, but you didn't ask. You never ask those kinds of questions. When it came down to it, you really, _really_ didn't want to know. You took your cigs with a grunt and he sat back down, went right back to staring.

Hanna passed out on your floor that night. You left him there, not bothering to even fetch him a blanket. You left the corpse on the table. You went to your office to sleep, had nightmares about Hanna jumping off buildings. You awoke to the distinct sound of Hanna choking back sobs. You didn't go to him. Not until it was silent.

When you did, he was curled up on the operation table with the corpse, looking about as dead as it did.

You didn't see him again after he left the next afternoon, without a word, dragging the corpse behind him. You crack your neck now, thinking disgustedly back to how blue the sky was that day. You realized then that Hanna's eyes would never be that blue again; just electric pools of nervous despair. You knew it. You _know_ it. As soon as Lamont came to you to tell you where the kid was, you were more certain of it than you were of anything.

As if on cue, Lamont walks in through the door, saving you from your thoughts. His face is stern and tired. His fists are clenched.

"He's…fine…" he says, obviously meaning the exact opposite. You scoff at him

"The fuck are they doin' to 'im over there? He ain't lettin' anybody poke at his chest, right?"

"Yeah, nobody knows about that. But his doctor is uh, on our side I guess. He knows about everything _but_ the scars, I think."

"Hanna fuckin' _told_ 'im?" It's not exactly rage in your voice, but it has the same flavor.

"Yes, but I think it's all right. This guy's not exactly one of_ them_, you know. Not that I'm comfortable with it _either_, but Hanna trusts him."

"Fuckin' _moron_…that little shit's gonna dig himself even deeper at this rate."

"I'm…Worth, I'm afraid that might be what he wants."

You don't say anything to that. You finish your cigarette and snub it onto your desk. You know Lamont is right, but you curse the kid in your mind anyway, thinking he had to be at least a little smarter than that. It may be the first time you felt like you were losing faith in Hanna Falk Cross's ability to pull through.

"He'd better fucking not try anything stupid."

* * *

More POV switching. Language, jeez. Worth is a pottymouth, PFFT. One more POV, I think, unless my brain pops up with another one. Should be interesting, then we'll get to the case. Which I am still deciding a verdict to...mah gunnuss, this is such a difficult fic. Trying to gauge just how depressing to beeeee...XD

AND YOU GUYS. Thanks for reading and commenting and helping me out with it, you're so awesome, I can't even. I appreciate all the support so much. :'D


	12. Chapter 12 POV: Toni

POV Break: Toni

* * *

Things had been relatively normal of late, forgetting of course that your life isn't exactly normal to begin with. Things have been boring. But you'd rather it was back to boring now, because what it had become was heartbreaking.

You were just leaving a rehearsal at the college when you heard a familiar voice call your name. Conrad. Someone was with him, and they hurried towards you with grave, tired faces. The selkie kid, Veser.

"Hey, Toni," Veser had said, out of breath and a little reservedly; you don't know each other as well as you could, mainly because of his constant passes at you, and he knows it. "We're here about Hanna. Dumbass got himself arrested or some shit, they stuck him in the nuthouse 'cause they think he killed zombie dude."

Your eyes went wide and your heart skipped a beat. You'd heard about the zombie's immobility from Hanna just a few days ago. Hanna seemed optimistic that the corpse would wake up; you'd left his apartment hoping he was right, but something inside you noticed the desperation in his manner. You were agitated about it ever since, and sometimes you'd worry about it in the middle of class. The two had been inseparable for a year, and you could tell there was so much more than a simple partnership between them. You'd even gotten Hanna engaged in a little "girl-talk" about it, and he was reluctant and flustered, and it was quite possibly the most adorable thing you'd ever seen. They were in love, and that love would naturally cause Hanna to go into denial when the zombie stopped moving. He wanted so much to be right, and you wanted that too, more than anything. Apparently he wasn't. And now he was in trouble; you could kick yourself for not realizing that having an honest-to-goodness corpse around would turn out badly for Hanna.

Your lips had pursed. You wanted to cry because you hadn't seen this coming when you should have. You really should have. And Hanna, poor Hanna, heartbroken in a cell, surrounded by murder accusations and people telling him he was crazy? Your fists clenched. The two in front of you noticed. Veser's feet shifted uncomfortably. Conrad looked like he wanted to say something, but did not. You said something instead.

"Where is he? Do you guys have the address?"

"Yes," Conrad replied with a sigh. He stared up at the sliver of moon above them, looking stressed and exhausted. "We're trying to set up his case in court. Lamont already went to see him. We came to see if you wanted to help us get Hanna out of there."

"Of course I want to help!" you nearly scoffed at him, amazed he felt the need to question. "Just tell me what I can do. And give me the address, I want to talk to him before the hearing…he must be so upset…"

You ran a hand through your hair and noticed it was shaking slightly. All at once, the magnitude of the situation hit you. Your heart clenched for what Hanna must be going through.

They found a corpse in his house. An eleven year old corpse. Hanna's _lover_, what's more, and how could they understand that? Blamed _him_ for the death. Threw him in an asylum, like an insane criminal, awaiting a trial he couldn't possibly win because the truth…how could they tell the truth? What could they prove? You knew Hanna would die of guilt if anyone exposed themselves to prove he was innocent. The consequences for whoever did it would be…_unpleasant_ didn't even begin to cover it. You thought of Hanna, hopeless and alone in some dark cell. Did they have him in a straitjacket? Were they feeding him pills and injecting him with things? He didn't deserve this. He was such a good person; such a strange, energetic, wonderful person. He _cared_ about people. He cared about everything and everyone so much. He cared a little too much, maybe. You hadn't known it would come to this. You shivered, wanting for all the world to hold him, because you knew he cared…he cared too much and now he was being ripped apart for it.

Conrad handed you the address on a slip of paper. Veser scuffed his shoe against the blacktop. You gripped the scrap tightly and sighed.

"I'm going to visit Hanna first thing tomorrow morning. You two let me know what's happening with his case as soon as you can, all right?"

They nodded. You hurried home. Now, on your couch and staring at the address of the mental hospital, you bite your lip and draw your knees up to your chest. You wonder what you could possibly say to him when you go tomorrow. You hope they let you hug him.

* * *

Hanna's eyes had never seemed so _dark_ before.

He smiles at you. His eyes lighten up somewhat, like you're the first thing he's had to smile about in a long time. He stands to greet you, surprised and looking so unbearably frail in his in-patient issued smock and pants. You take little comfort in the fact that he's just his usual stick-thin self; he's been eating normally at least.

"Toni? _Wow_, I didn't expect to see you! I'm so glad you're here, though, I really miss you!"

He hugs you close, a little too tight, like he's afraid maybe you aren't really there after all. You put your arms around him as well, swallowing back the lump in your throat and squeezing him. You rest your cheek on his hair and sigh, though it comes out a light shudder. It's hard to repress your sadness, seeing him this way. Tired and pale and his hair and eyes darkening, heartbeat weak, erratic. But he smiles, and you think maybe it won't be so bad; if we can just get him home, it might not be so bad.

"Hanna, I've been so _worried_ about you. I can't believe this happened. I should have gone to check on you, what was I thinking? Leaving you with…" You stop. He doesn't need any constant reminding. You can already feel his shoulders tensing.

"Anyway, how are you? I know you can't be great, but…are you holding up okay? You're not giving up, right?"

He's still holding you when he shakes his head. You smooth his hair out some while he speaks. "No, I'm not giving up or anything, I just…you know, there's not a whole lot anyone can _do_. We can't just expose all our spooky shit to let me out, that's just dumb. I'm not worth it. And it's just really hard being here…I want to go _outside_, Toni. I want to go smash trolls and go to the movies and eat ice cream at the park. I want…_I want Cerys back_…"

His voice cracks and his hands grip your blouse. He's trying not to cry. You want to tell him it's okay, but you don't want to see him cry either. You want to make him smile. So you do what you can; you rub his back soothingly, rocking him from side to side gently. His breath is uneven at first, but he calms for you.

"I wish I'd seen it coming," he whispers. "Maybe I could have done something about it. He was so…_different_ just before, but how could I have known that…shit, Toni, he was moving so slow before that. He even said he felt tired once. He's a _zombie_, they don't _get_ tired!"

He pulls away from you to meet your eyes, but his hands still grip your arms. You just let him talk. You could see by the frenzy behind his clouded eyes that he needed this. You knew he wouldn't talk about this with Veser, or Lamont. Especially not Worth, and likely not Conrad. You might just be the only one he'd want to open up to about this, aside from that Dr. Hewney who'd led you inside.

"He couldn't keep up with me some nights. I'd see him with his hand on his chest, and eventually he told me he felt some kinda _pain_. Then he said he felt nothing…he felt numb. He didn't…he stopped kissing me. Stopped being…affectionate. Just held his chest and stared at nothing. Thought it was my fault or a bit, but he'd just smile at me and say '_no, it's all right I just don't feel like myself_'…I should have known better. His eyes even dimmed, I should have noticed that better, too. _Fuck_. He doesn't sleep. He said he needed a nap, he was tired, he needed to lie down…Toni, I had no idea he wouldn't get up again! I didn't think it would be…"

Hanna breaks away and slumps over the small table in the visiting room. He's shaking, his breath coming out like hysterical laughter. You start feeling afraid, but of what you aren't entirely sure.

"Who'd have thought I was this much of an idiot? Such a fuck-up, seriously, it's no wonder I ended up here…"

More laughter, and it cracks, and Hanna lowers himself into a chair and buries his head in his arms. He's crying. You put your hands on his shoulders, burning to say something. You don't, though. You can't. Not just yet. There's just nothing you _can_ say. You rub his shoulders, wishing it were enough to rub the misery right out of him. You can smell his tears, and it's enough to make you cry too. But you keep it quiet. You need to be strong for Hanna.

Someone needs to be strong, and you're determined to be while the others work out the trial. You don't know a damn thing about court cases, but you know a thing or two about being a friend. Hopefully it's enough until then.

* * *

OH MY GOD. I'M SO SORRY.

I'M SORRY ABOUT THE LACK OF UPDATE, REALLY. Things have been...interesting. Some good, some bad, but most of it exhausting and hopefully the next chapter won't take so long. Trying to update CKS too, but uh...haha, well, let's just say I'm still a little rusty writing porny bits. XD

Anyway, this chapter was a little tedious for me because I have no idea how to write Toni, but I really like the idea of her and Hanna being buddies. And it's even worse 'cause everybody's upset in this fic, so everything I do feels OOC, so...man, I decided to stop sweating it and just write. Hope it's ok!

Sorry again, and like always, comments, criticisms, love and even flames are totally appreciated.


	13. Chapter 13

Lamont Toucey was certainly something else.

I stared at the legal document in front of me, having to go over it several times before I understood what it meant. Basically, it was asking the question that could save Hanna depending on my answer.

Paraphrasing three pages to a sentence, it asked: "Are the contents of the trial too dangerous for the public, and if so, should the trial take place privately, judged by government officials?"

I didn't waste any time marking my answer, a simple "Yes, the information should be kept confidential at any cost." Signed, dated.

A few days after the young woman with blue-streaked hair came to visit Hanna, a teen with terrifyingly pointed teeth showed up in my office, out of breath with a small bag of five videotapes. The kid said his name was Veser. A friend of Hanna's, and if they were going to get Hanna out, I had to watch those videos, it was "_really super-fucking important or something, just watch them_". He had left in a hurry after that. I waited until I got home to watch them.

The first had been a recording of Lamont.

"Hey there, Hewney. I'm sure you remember me, Lamont Toucey. These are tapes that were taken during certain…well, some were supposed to be vacations, but, eheh…it's hardly ever very relaxing when Hanna's involved. Some of them are just dumb home videos he took too. I kinda mixed and matched them so they'd make better sense. They are numbered, I'm sure you've noticed, and chronological. These tapes will prove that Hanna's not crazy, but also, you know, not a murderer. We can't use them in a normal trial, however, so I'm working on getting us a special case. Don't worry about any of that. Just focus on Hanna. He needs you while we're putting all this together. A lot of strings need pulling and a lot of favors need doing, so…just make sure he's okay. He needs someone and we can't be there, so you need to. He trusts you."

Since seeing that video, I had been waiting for the letter currently in my hands. I sealed my reply, placed it in my outbox. No emails for this, just one copy, hand-delivered both ways.

The second video was of Hanna in very dilapidated places, one of which being his home. One other place was very frequent; a dingy room that looked like it was once a clinic. The remarkable and fantastic thing, though, was the particularly green company in those scenes. This was the proof we needed, the proof that was too dangerous to use.

Static. "_Hanna? What-_" Static. "_-get that thing? It looks broken…_" Static. "-_-camera, bro! It's uh…kinda fixed, almost. Um. Here!_" Black screen explodes into Hanna's bright smile and clunky glasses. I was taken slightly aback by the shock of sudden saturation, but also by the sheer joy in his face. I'd never seen him like this before. This was the real Hanna. This was who he was always supposed to be. This was who he'd very likely never be again.

"_Ha! Dude, totally awesome, it's filming! Hey, hey future me! Is there anything in my teeth? Haha!_" The camera closed in on Hanna's mouth for a second before it was jostled around by his laughter. There was a small rumble of laughter from someone else, the deep voice that had spoken before. Then the camera was jostled even more, focused upside-down on something bright orange.

"_Oh man, this is so cool! Wait, hang on, it's not-_" And the camera flipped, zoomed out, giving me a full view of the zombie. "_There's that rugged mug of yours! Haha, one smile for the camera Dionysus, come on!_"

Green lips stretched to a genuine, indulgent smile. Glowing orange eyes closed and the corpse shook its head with a chuckle. I could see the tug of the stitches on his face and neck. "_Hanna, really, where did you get this?_"

"_Found it! It was tossed into a dumpster by Worth's place. But I could tell it still worked, a few of the pieces were just messed up, so I fixed it! Now we can do home movies and shit!_"

While he spoke, he panned the camera all over his tiny, cruddy apartment, zooming in on various ridiculous things; socks and a Dick Tracy poster, and then over to the kitchen, into a pan on the stove crusted with grease. He turned the camera to the corpse again, who stood and crossed over to Hanna. He didn't look to enthusiastic about 'home movies', but he did look quite affectionately at Hanna nonetheless.

"_I see…and I suppose these will be staples in movie night once we have a few taken?_"

"_For sure, man! That's the whole point of movies, to watch them! So hey, say something to your future self!_"

The zombie looked to ponder it for a second, then put his face close to the camera. "_Future self, I'll bet Hanna forgot popcorn again, but really wants some. Go put a bag in the microwave for him._"

Hanna dissolved into laughter again, dropping the camera. Static. Then the zombie's amused face again. He was holding the camera, but looking at Hanna off-screen. "_I'll bet future Hanna will be laughing just as hard._" Then he looked straight at the camera, straight at me, not the Hanna it was meant for. "_Are you?_"

I stopped the tape for a minute. Tears were stinging my eyes. There was a sick feeling churning in my stomach, pooling in my gut and leaking through my extremities. There was actual proof of the zombie on that tape, talking, moving, acting as though it were never dead at all, perfectly human. It was like a man in makeup, but I knew better. Even without expertise, there was no denying the way those stitches moved and the particular tightness and texture of skin, even visible on camera. Gaunt, too; far too unhealthy looking for a living man to move as easily as he did. The man on the screen was a _zombie_, was speaking and moving and making jokes with Hanna. It would take simple tests to prove the tapes were not tampered with, no CGI, no nothing. Just Hanna and his best friend, not even lover yet, by this point of the tapes.

Static again. Then the dingy could-be clinic. "_Wooorth! Hey! I'm bleeding man! Oh yeah, and check it out, I fixed the camera!_"

The camera whipped around the room, taking in a horribly shriveled plant and a messy, stained desk. I could hear something clang and then there were grumbles. A door in back opened, revealing a tall, lanky man in a dirty, fur-trimmed coat. His eyes were rung deep and dark, his teeth were yellow, and a cigarette dangled between them.

"_The fuck, Hanna? You were jus' in here yesterday!_" His voice was gravelly, thickly accented. Reminiscent of Australian, corrupted by street American. "_Turn that piece o' shit off and quit bleedin' on my floor!_" Black, a second, then a disturbing close-up of Hanna's thigh, resting on a beat-up medical table. His jeans were torn apart, revealing deep and heavily bleeding gashes in his flesh. The camera was too close; the heat from the wound fogged up the lens.

"_Ew, it looks even worse on camera!_" Hanna was saying. He turned it to film the zombie beside him, looking grim and unamused.

"_Hanna, is this really the time for that? You're lucky you didn't lose your entire leg._"

"_That's the whole reason we gotta film it! We totally survived that thing!_" Hanna turned it toward himself, smiling even though his face was spattered with blood and sweating from the obvious pain. He wiped at the lens with his sleeve before speaking. "_Hey future me! Remember this? I'll bet they scar, oh man, are they still there? Anyway, yeah, this'll teach me not to underestimate scared and angry gremlins, right? Or just uh..stay away from plane propellors._"

I heard the zombie sigh off-screen, and Hanna laughed a little before a door banged open.

"_Awright, ye little shit, pants off. And why's 'at thing filming again? Didn' I tell ya to turn it off?_"

Zoomed in, I could see the man's sallow skin and clear irritation. His dark eyes were narrowed. He still had a cigarette between his teeth. "_C'mon, Worth, let Steven film us! It'll be a really cool video!_"

Worth snorted and opened a drawer, pulling out an old medical kit. "_F'ya wanna see yerself in pain, fine. Whatever, kid. Jes' keep that thing outta the way, got it?_"

The camera was handed off to a very unenthusiastic zombie. Hanna pulled his jeans off, grimacing as he peeled the fabric out of his wounds. I flinched at the sight. It was rather gruesome. The rest of the video consisted of stitches, shouted abuse, more static, and Hanna being far too happy for someone whose leg was nearly shredded. Much of the rest of the tapes were like that as well; Hanna retaining his optimism through copious injuries, the zombie being there for him at every turn, sometimes affectionately and sometimes sternly.

Hanna was not insane. And Hanna was not a murderer. And I cried on my sofa for a very long time, for Hanna. I cried for his kindness and oddities and no, Hanna, there was nothing in your teeth that day, and should I bring you popcorn tomorrow? I didn't know. I didn't know what to do.

But I did know, didn't I? "_Be there for Hanna._" For the zombie who loved him but couldn't be there anymore, for Lamont who was working so hard to help him, for the friends who could only visit afternoons and rushed about to find every scrap of evidence they could. For myself, grown so attached to the man in such a short time, so deeply invested in his well-being.

For all of them, for me, for just plain rightness, be there for Hanna. I could do that.

I watched the tapes all night. Watched Hanna nearly drown at the beach while the zombie mothered over him and Worth screamed at him. Watched Hanna get more stitches at Worth's not-clinic and Lamont playing cards with a floating pair of glasses and a sweater vest called Conrad. A vampire, apparently. I watched Toni turn down leers from Veser and the invisible Conrad being badgered by Worth. I saw Toni's pretty face explode into blue fur and snarls. Hanna rescuing pixies from cats. Toni and Hanna having coffee, Toni singing on stage, a flustered pair of glasses when Toni talked to Conrad. Bizarre explosions, magic, angry animals, a frustrated ghost, some kind of demon, screams and laughter and lots of yelling. The zombie carrying Hanna, cooking for Hanna, wiping Hanna's tears away, playfully teasing Hanna. I saw the zombie sweep Hanna off his feet into an earth shatteringly beautiful kiss while Toni giggled from behind the camera.

It was hard to believe half of what I saw, and the other half was nearly heartbreaking. Hanna had such a good life, despite his knack for getting hurt and the strangeness f it all. Now, glancing at the form in my outbox, I felt the same swelling of emotions I had that night I powered through those videos. I put my head in my hands and sighed. To think I knew so little about the world I lived in. To think it took one skinny redhead to flip that world upside down. To think all those wonderful moments and frightening images were real…and who'd have thought there was enough room in me for all this new fear on top of my worry for the situation at hand?

* * *

It was easy to forget Hanna was a man, not a boy, sometimes. He he had that preference for saturated colors, patterns, cartoons, comics; was so curious, so intensely energetic and _young_. But today, he was different. He was quiet and calm. He was using the blue crayon that he'd been neglecting since I'd given it to him.

I bent over him at his rubber desk, watching him draw. It looked like waves, crashing against a red stone. Nearly the entire paper was blue now, different shades of it, with just that red stone in the middle. Made me think of passion being drowned. Emptiness…banked fire.

"You know, Connor," he said. He'd taken to using my first name. "I think my friends might just be able to get me out of here."

"I think so too, Hanna. They're working really hard for you…you're lucky to have people who love you so much."

"Yeah…yeah, I really am. I just don't really deserve it."

"I think you do." I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him continue to fill the page with color. "And pardon me saying so, but in this case, it doesn't matter what _you_ think."

He smirked at me sidelong, a grateful twinkle in his eyes. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he turned his chair to face me.

"So. Whaddya say we hit up the cafeteria now? I'm in the mood for some damn jello."

I raised a brow at him. "Jello? You're making some serious progress here. I can see there's some hope left in you. Is jello all you can think about?"

"Well _duh_," he replied, standing and stretching. "What better way to celebrate at a hospital than jello?"

He nudged me with a wink and headed out the door. I followed, smiling. We entered the cafeteria, heading straight for the salad bar. Hanna piled as much red jello as he could into a bowl, ignoring the green and orange. I had a feeling it was very much on purpose, and nothing to do with flavors. He topped it with whipped cream. I did the same, but with significantly less dessert. We sat and ate, in a strange but comfortable silence. He was gazing wistfully out the window.

"I want to be outside."

"You just have a little while to wait, Hanna. You'll get there."

"I never realized how beautiful it was out there, Connor. I mean, I always loved being outside, but…I never _noticed_ it, you know? Took it for granted, like everyone. Never thought about how awesome it was to be able to climb a tree or pick out shapes in clouds. And I'll bet this jello would taste better out there, under the sun."

His eyes were cloudy, but there weren't tears this time. I could see something swelling behind them, something like confidence. Then he smiled at me, a real, genuine smile. There was still sadness filtering through, but it was the closest to those videotapes I'd ever seen. It made my heart lurch. I returned it as best I could.

"I'd be locked in a little room with a straightjacket, hand-fed pills everyday if it wasn't for you believing me. You're fucking awesome, man."

Hanna didn't cry that night. He had his first long, healthy sleep since coming here. And interestingly enough, so did I.

* * *

I'm so sorry for the long wait. And I'm sorry this isn't even worth the wait. I've had the worst writeblock ever on this thing! And no time to write it, UUUUGH. But hey, I figured I may as well get it rolling, even if I'm not happy with it, because if I don't it will never get done. And thats uncool. Haha. So um...here's the blathering fill I came up with to ease into my pseudo-court case coming up. And yaaaaay, there's gonna be Conrad next chapter!


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